The old adage learn by doing sure applies
to Williamson “Will” Franco, a dominant prodigy at age 18. If it weren’t for an
impromptu threeway encounter—with a sideshow of anilingus—this truly
intercultural young man never would have dreamed of spanking, bondage, and role
play. So he becomes an employee of a sex club.

When Will shows up, club revenues jump.
Consensual kinky sex is not a required part of the job, but is optional. The
club, however, ends up being much more than a sexual awakening. His coworkers
embrace him as kin, while the proprietress and her submissive husband end up
being Will’s benefactors, bankrolling his education and guiding him on a good
path, despite a dire home life in the hood.

The experience matures him, equips him
to cope with inevitable family problems and tragedy, and shows him how to live.

Excerpt

Once they arrived at Kendra’s sleek
apartment, she got right to the point and explained the plan: although she and
Yuri engaged in unprotected sex—they scheduled regular clinic visits to test
for STIs—Will would need to use a condom.

Kendra had a special chair Yuri bought
for her with Righteous Ding Dong proceeds. The chair let Kendra sit
comfortably, but exposed and parted her ass crack and pussy for Yuri to service
below.

“I’m not always a top,” she explained.

Will, though green with this lingo,
understood.

“I’m very balanced. I like being top and
bottom, often topping from the bottom—like now.”

Kendra espoused her philosophical ideal
of sex while she settled herself on the chair. She wore stockings, a garter
belt, and stilettos, as well as a half-cup bra to complete the look. She
beckoned Will toward her, her face level with his fly, which she deftly undid.
When he looked down at this brunette vixen, he detected some Asian ancestry.

Yuri was already set up under the chair,
sighing at the sight of her slit. “While Yuri eats my ass, I’ll service your
cock— with a rubber to be safe,” Kendra told Will. “Is that agreed?”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Yuri with a muffle, his
mouth already planted in her heavenly cave as he stroked his full-to-bursting
cock.

Home is where the bulk of my stories come together. Mostly I
write in the morning, sometimes into the afternoon, because that’s when I’m
alone. Though the picture of my desk—taken in soft mid-morning light that
filters out the dust—shows a stereo next to my computer, I don’t listen to
music while composing. It would be too distracting and I’d be wanting to dance
instead. The quiet solitude helps me unleash with scenes and descriptions and
gets me into the creative-process zone. There is a plastic musical bird tchotchke
at the corner of my desk, but it is turned OFF. Outside my window are all sorts
of real birds singing, soothing me, which helps me be productive.

It all comes together at home, but I have been very
dependent on my weathered Moleskine reporter notebook, pocket size.

It flips from the top. I purchased it at Barnes & Noble
where I used to work at night. It’s quite full of story ideas, nutty phrases,
cut-up collages, news clippings. I used to carry it everywhere, so I could whip
it out like Lois Lane and jot down observations or thoughts, but it’s so full
of valuable stuff I now keep it safe at home.

This is somewhat of a creative disadvantage, because an idea
bulb will go off when I’m out buying toilet paper at Big Lots or getting gas,
and I’ll scramble to find an old receipt to write down the brainstorm. If I’m
too late, or I’m driving, the idea is…poof,
gone. What I need to do is emulate the late great David Bowie and acquire a
handheld voice recorder to capture those fleeting inspirations.

Meet the
Author

M. Christine is a SoCal writers whose work is infused with an extended
tour of duty in adult-magazine publishing, melting-pot subcultures, and art
school.